


Prelude

by Kahvi, Roadstergal



Series: Just The Sort of Thing That Happens [1]
Category: Red Dwarf RPF
Genre: Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-21 18:55:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3702435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kahvi/pseuds/Kahvi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roadstergal/pseuds/Roadstergal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 1987. Two very different men are about to meet for the very first time, and are prepared to get intimately acquainted. Just how intimate, and just how quickly, however, they have no idea. That's not a euphemism.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> We do not know Craig Charles or Chris Barrie; we only know the public image they present in various public appearances. This is an entirely fictional story, wherein is presented fictionalized versions of those publicly projected personalities. What is presented in this story does not necessarily reflect what we think even of those projected images. What the actors themselves are like, we have not a clue, and furthermore, it is none of our business. We would never suggest or presume to know anything about them, or their personal lives. Rather, this story takes their images and plays with them within a fictionalized universe. It is a fantasy, and nothing more. The same goes for any and all names and/or public personas used and/or mentioned in this story.

You can't act, she'd said. Yeah, thanks; lovely that. Nice with a bit of moral support. Craig sighed, wishing he'd had another drink before he came. One clearly wasn't enough. Somewhere deep inside, the idea that she had been right kept poking at him. Well, she was a _proper_ actress, wasn't she? Shouldn't she know? Surveying the empty locker room in nervous frustration, he reached for the only comfort he had left. A few frantic seconds ticked by as he patted himself down, until he was forced to face the horrible truth; he had a reading for an actual BBC sitcom coming up in less than an hour, and he did not have his bloody cigs on him.

"Shit," he mumbled. "Stupid fecking..." He hadn't slept a wink, which was the only reason he was here so early, and he was starting to feel it. He always got jittery when he'd had no sleep, and the only thing that helped was a good smoke or a stiff drink, and here he was with neither. There was time, though; there was still time. He bounced around the dressing room in a frantic search, knocking over this and that, swearing as he heard something fall and break with a glassy, shattering noise. Shaking, he ran his fingers through his hair, and patted his pockets one last time. Would he have time to go buy some? What if he didn't make it back in time? Could he risk it? He might, he thought with some desperation, have to.

Chris paced aimlessly around the small meeting room. He had come a few minutes early, true - he liked to make a good impression on the first day - but _nobody_ was there. Not the writers, not the directors, not other members of the cast, not the girl who made coffee. Nobody who was even tangentially involved with the project was present. It was ludicrous. Chris spent an entertaining minute and a half wondering if he was in the wrong room, but he had checked as soon as he had arrived. It was the right one. He sighed, and decided to check the locker room. Maybe folk were up there, hanging up their coats, chatting, wasting time.

While there was every chance he would make it to the newsagent's on the corner and back with time to spare, Craig really didn't like the idea of leaving so close to the read-through. On the other hand, the way he was, he was hardly fit to _watch_ a show, much less give an impressive performance reading for one. Turning his head this way and that, Craig suddenly stopped, as his eyes came upon the rather large locker where he had just hung his jacket. Oh, for fuck's sake! His jacket. They were in his jacket; they had to be! Feeling exceptionally foolish, he dove in head first, banging it hard against the back wall, and letting lose another volley of unseemly words.

The profanity drifted out and met Chris on his way into the room. He frowned. Someone was there, certainly, and was not happy about it. He saw a backside that he did not recognize - not that he would recognize anyone in this endeavor from that end! - sticking out of one of the wall lockers. He cleared his throat to announce his presence - a gentle 'ahem.' Seeing no response, Chris frowned. Was the owner of the backside sick? Taken with some fit of... something? He walked over, hearing strange, muffled sounds. He touched whoever it was gingerly on the back. "Are you all right?" He bent in slightly to get a look at the person's face.

Craig jumped at the touch and turned wildly, flailing around for support. Nearly slipping in his turn, he reached out to grab the shirt of whoever it was that had poked him - some tall, skinny man; the janitor? - hoping it would be enough to keep him upright. He worried, in the half-second he had time to do so, that it certainly would not be.

Chris had not been expecting anything so dramatic, and was immediately offbalanced. He stumbled into the locker as his shirt was yanked. His sleeve caught on the door for a moment, swinging it shut behind him. Chris kept moving until he banged his forehead against the far wall of the locker. "Shit!" he barked, startled. What was this? One moment, he was asking after some unknown ill person, and the next, he was locked in a very small space with - he looked at the other occupant in the dim light that filtered into the air slats - some kid.

His head pounding, right leg hurting in that dull, insistent way that indicated he had strained some muscle or other, Craig pressed against one of the locker walls, panting, confused and panicked. "Wha... Wha...."

Chris put one hand on the far wall and the other on the locker door, stabilizing himself while he got his feet back under him. "The... hell?" He pushed on the door. It did not budge.

Craig tried to stand back, but with hardly an inch of space between them, his arms, side and stomach kept grazing the other man. What man? Who on Earth was he? "Err..." he said, lamely.

Chris pushed the door a little harder, but it stayed shut. He swallowed down a sick mouthful of panic that rose in his throat. "I think we're locked in," he said, trying not to sound as anxious as he felt. Confined spaces were fine. Confined spaces with complete strangers were something different, and confined spaces with complete strangers that threatened to make him late to a first read-through were intolerable. He tried to press himself against the wall. He did _not_ enjoy casual touches, thank you _very_ much.

Craig tried to make out the other man's outline. He wasn't as tall as Craig had first thought when making a mad grab for his shirt, but he _was_ rather skinny - in a healthy-looking kind of way. Heavy-lidded eyes avoided Craig's above a large-ish nose and twitching lips. Realizing it was hanging open, Craig shut his mouth abruptly, blushing irately at the thought of what he must have looked like, staring inanely like that.

Chris frowned at the kid's gaping-mouthed silence. "Er, who are you?" The son of one of the crew, poking around, he'd bet. Damn kids.

"Er..." Craig did not know what to do with his hands all of a sudden. He pressed them against the locker's sides, feeling the cool metal chill his palms. "I'm..." he felt the other man's breath on his face, "Craig." He regained some composure. "Craig Charles."

Oh, yes, the other member of the cast. Chris had heard about the man; he had assumed that he would be in his late twenties, like Chris, but the boy in front of him looked fifteen! His breath smelled of whiskey. So early in the morning? Chris tried to shift to a position that would let him push against the locker wall and not touch Craig at all. He bumped Craig a few times before he gave it up and pushed back into his previous position. The boy felt fifteen, too, with that oddly soft firmness that boys have before they lose the baby fat. "Oh, you're here for the read-through," Chris said, feeling very irate. Whatever the hell this Craig person had been doing, it was going to make them _both_ late.

Craig started a little as he was bumped. Why couldn't the other man stand still? He looked about as uncomfortable as Craig was nervous; what was that about? Did Craig smell bad, or something? "Yeah." Of course, he had to admit it was a bit of an awkward situation. Craig took turns looking at the man's feet, shoulders, knees and side - what he deemed to be the least suspicious parts to be caught looking at - and carefully avoided the man's face.

Chris sighed "And what were you _doing_? I thought you were ill."

Craig felt slightly offended. Did he look ill, or something? "Wha? No. Erm... I was..." he gave a slight frown, as it struck him how stupid a truthful answer to that question would sound. Best to just avoid that, if he could. "Who are you then?"

"I'm Chris. I'm the _other_ person on this..." Chris shifted uncomfortably. "Chris Barrie."

The name struck no chord, although it sounded vaguely familiar, like something he'd read in a long list of other names at some point. Studying Chris's face again, Craig tried to remember if he'd seen him somewhere before, but nothing came to mind. "Oh."

"Oh what?" Chris turned his attention back to the door. The lock wasn't so much a lock as just a mechanism to keep the locker closed; from the other side, it would just be a movement of the handle to open it. The mechanism on the inside was somewhat exposed, and Chris thought he might be able to spring it. He started to slide one hand towards the pull-rod. It was not as easy as it should have been; the slot the rod sat in was small enough to scrape even his pinky, and he was trying to do all of this while pressed against the wall and not touching Craig any more than necessary. He did not make much progress.

"Just..." Craig shifted uncomfortably and sighed. "Nothing." Hell, this was getting them nowhere. Hours of nervousness, anticipation and this added frustration broke something in him, and he sprang into sudden, frustrated, manic action, banging on the door with his fist. He knew it wouldn't help, but he'd hoped it would at least make him feel better. "Shit!" It didn't.

Chris yanked his hand back before it was crushed by the other man. "Hey!" the annoying little man bumped Chris with his elbow, which did not improve Chris's mood. "Unless you plan on knocking the damn door down..." he growled. As though in response, Craig banged his forehead against the damn thing, his side rubbing against Chris's front. Chris was not enjoying it one bit. The man reeked of cigarettes. He sighed. "Look, take it easy."

Craig gave him a sideways look, waiting to see if any brilliant suggestions were forthcoming from that direction. "Oh, eh?"

Chris turned to fiddle with the catch again with both hands. Craig tried to get out of the way as Chris's arms snaked past his stomach, just below his belt. Chris focused on the tab that held the door closed, this time. He managed to get the very tips of his two index fingers on it. "I'm sure..." he muttered, closing his eyes and slowly pulling the tab back. It shifted! Not enough, though, and he carefully started to ease his two middle fingers in to hold the tab in place. If he could get his forefingers back on the tab and pull back the same amount, the door would spring open. He could feel sweat on the back of his neck. "Damn thing..." he muttered.

Whatever Chris was trying to do, he seemed to have a very clear idea of how to go about it, so Craig let him. He stood quite still, watching remarkably agile, long fingers work at the latch-thing, if that was what it was. Absent-mindedly, his eyes trailed along those fingers, back to the hands they were attached to, and further up the arms that were almost rubbing against... Why was his mouth open again?

The tab slipped out of Chris's fingers, snicking neatly back into place. Chris bit down on another swear word, and gave a very disgruntled sigh. "Well, _I_ can't get it open." He pressed himself back against the wall.

Craig slowly looked up, with slight frown. "Guess we're stuck here." Sarcasm showed in his voice. Which was good, because he'd put it there.

"Yes..." Chris said. "Why?" This Craig fellow still hadn't answered _that_ one. Chris watched as Craig slowly straightened, showing a rather high degree of flexibility, ending up almost face to face with him.

"Eh?" Craig was tired, he was nervous and jumpy, and it probably showed. He could tell Chris thought he was angry, which only served to irritate him. Fecking self-fulfilling prophecy, he grumbled to himself.

Whatever it was, it was a hot button with this man, and the only thing worse than being trapped in a cramped locker with a little Scouser kid would be being trapped in a cramped locker with an irate little Scouser kid. Chris wiggled uncomfortably against the locker. His personal space was about as thoroughly invaded as it had ever been. "Never mind," he said, hearing the rapid breathing of the other man slowly subsiding. Good. At least he wouldn't jump him or anything. Chris raised his arms to push against the top of the locker. It wasn't any more comfortable than standing with his hands at his sides, so he dropped them again. He cast about for something to say to dispel the discomfort, just a bit. Humor. Humor is always good. "I'm not usually this physically intimate with someone I've just met," he deadpanned.

Craig breathed quickly through his nose, not quite a snort. Well, that was certainly true. He giggled. "No, me neither."

"So - you're an early riser, too?" Chris asked, feeling the burden of conversation resting squarely on his shoulders.

A reply on his lips, Craig made the mistake of shifting his legs a little. Cloth brushed against cloth very close to an area so he couldn't help but notice was his crotch. Horror thrilled up and down his spine as he realized they were practically pelvis to pelvis. "Not... Not really," he stammered, trying to rid his mind of all thought.

"Just thought you'd make a good impression by showing up early to the first one?" Chris shifted again, bumping Craig's shoulder. Just stand _still_! he told himself. His skin wasn't listening; it wanted to crawl off of his body and slip under the door.

"Something like that," Craig offered, a little annoyed at his own discomfort. He wasn't gay, after all. And this guy didn't seem gay either, though of course, he added with some apprehension, you could never know, could you?

Chris twisted his lip. Realizing that the full effect would be lost in the dim locker, he imitated a gentle snort that he once heard a director make. He had found it to be a good semi-humorous sound, perfect for occasions like this. "Well, it won't look good for either of us when we show up late. 'Sorry, we were in a locker' won't go over well."

"Heh." Craig's snort was not quite a laugh, but it was as close as he would get to one right now. At least it was a nice, not unfriendly, sound, he thought. Not _too_ friendly, though; he didn't want to give this Chris the wrong idea. They'd be working together, after all. That could be awkward, not knowing if he could go to the loo without running the risk of being groped by some... He caught himself in disbelief. What was he doing thinking about this? Stupid, warm, bloody locker, making it hard to breathe, messing with his mind...

"These lockers are too bloody small," Chris growled. They were actually oversized for a single coat, but far too small for two wearers of coats.

"Don't think they're supposed to have people in 'em, yeah?"

"I hope not. I'd hate to think what people would get into in them." Speaking of coats, what was that under Chris's feet? He awkwardly tried to squat. "I think I'm stepping on your coat. If it's yours."

Now where was he going? "Tha's all righ'," Craig said quickly, wondering if he should look down at the floor or not, then wondering why he was wondering about that.

Chris gingerly fished around with a forefinger, managing to snag the jacket. He pulled himself back upright. The jacket was leather, and as Chris pulled it back with him, he could smell the musk of a heavy smoker's leather clothing. He tried to hang it up, which was a terrible idea; they had little enough space as it was. He hung it on Craig's shoulder, instead. At least they wouldn't be trampling it.

Craig stood very, very, very still as the jacket was deposited on him, feeling like a teen being forcibly dressed by his mum. He abruptly shut his mouth again; damn thing kept popping open, and gave a sheepish grin.

What was with the constantly gaping mouth? Chris wondered. Maybe - "Are you all right? You were - bent over. I thought you were sick."

"Yeah, I'm fine. Din't find me smokes, is all."

Chris frowned. "We're locked in here because you were looking for your cigarettes." Like it wasn't a filthy habit already; he suddenly had another reason to hate blasted cigarettes and the blasted gits who smoked them.

Craig gave him a steady look. "Yeah?" Did he want to make something of it?

Chris sighed. "Right." He bent down to fiddle with the door again. It had been just a little slip, the last time. Maybe he could pull the tab all of the way out.

Clearly, he _did_ want to make something of it! Probably one of those people who couldn't just be happy with not smoking themselves, and had to stop other people from doing what they enjoyed. Fecking bastards. "Well, it's not as if I did it on purpose, yeah?"

"Yes," Chris muttered, tightly. Who cared if it was on purpose or not? They were stuck either way, and Chris was damned if he was going to stay stuck for a minute longer.

 _Right_ , _yes_! Wonderful conversationalist, wasn't he? Bloody big plum in his mouth though, sounding like he was auditioning to play the queen in a Christmas pantomime. Maybe he liked that - a bit of dressing up? "Why'd ya have to come in here, anyway?"

"I'm in the show. I was going to hang up my coat and wait for everyone else." Chris muttered.

Craig straightened his back, tilting his head back as far as it would go. The least the guy could do was look him in the eye while they were talking. He gave Chris a steady, irate look. "Wha, in the locker, like?"

The look was entirely lost on Chris, who had just shifted the tab back slightly again. He moved the holding of it to his middle fingers. "It wasn't my first choice, but it appears to be a premier hangout, these days." He pushed his forefingers in, grabbed the tab, and started to pull. It slid back even more. Just a hair more, and it would pop open! This jubilant thought directly preceded the tab slipping out of his sweat-slick fingers. The edge of the tab pinched a corner of his finger between the tab and the casing of the slot, tearing the finger. "Damn!" he yipped, pulling the finger back and sticking it in his mouth. It stung.

What was he doing, fiddling with that thing? Craig could almost feel irritation seep out of his pores. He was probably even standing angrily, he thought. Well, good. "Cut that out, would ya?" But then there was the finger, bleeding, shaking a little as Chris put it in his mouth, and Craig found that he couldn't look away.

Chris pulled the finger out of his mouth and tried to shake it without hitting Craig. It stung massively. "I think I just _did_ cut it out," he muttered. He raised his voice to a conversational level and asked, with just the slightest bit more deference than necessary, "Well, what do you suggest?"

Craig stared at Chris until he removed his finger, then tried to shake sense into himself. Forget what Chris was doing, what was _he_ doing? Of course, there wasn't a lot to look at in here, and that cut had looked rather nasty. He shook his head, registering that some question or other had been asked.

Oh, fantastic. The irate little man had nothing at all useful to contribute, just standing there looking like a sullen teenager. "Wait and hope someone else brought a jacket to hang up, I guess," Chris muttered with a weighty sigh. "This is worse than being locked in a closet with the tart of the week in school." He realized how that must sound, and added, quickly, "I mean, not that..."

A sudden, instinctual anger rose in Craig. No one was calling him a fag and getting away with it! The fecking nerve of the man! He pressed closer to Chris scarily quickly, getting into his face. "What?"

Chris found it odd that the man's closeness did not bring on panic. He realized that his discomfort level was already so saturated by being locked into close quarters that any minor points of whether the man was too close or _really_ too close were completely unimportant. Just like being locked in a closet with a bird. He started to chuckle.

OK, maybe he wasn't calling him a fag. Maybe he was just out of his mind. Like one of those claustrophobics or something, going spare if you left them in a closed space. Craig hoped there were no sharp objects around.

Chris stifled the chortle. It would not help things one bit.

"What??" Craig snapped, his face a mask of annoyance mixed with anger and embarrassment. If he wasn't mad, then what was he laughing at? At Craig?

"Just..." Chris shook his head. "Er, which one of us is the tart?"

Not one to mince his words was he? Craig shifted closer again, practically _daring_ Chris to speak again, hoping he would. It'd be a relief to smack some respect into that stupid mug, get some of this tension out of the way. "You what?"

He had made the man irate again. It did not take much, did it? Chris tried to defuse the tension with a sexy female voice. "You have lovely eyes, you know, and I've only done half the football team..."

Craig's eyes widened. Crazy it was then. Stunned into a complete and utter loss for words, his mouth opened and closed over and over, as though sounds would come if he only did it long enough.

This seemed to be a good distraction. Chris put on the voice of his old headmaster. "This is the fourth time this week you've managed to get 'accidentally' locked in with one of the boys, Miss Barrie. I'm afraid we'll have to give you a jolly good spanking."

Craig pressed more closely to Chris, not noticing that he was; he had lost all sense of direction. His eyes were now on their way out of his face. Calling himself a girl, now? A right character, this one was, one for the feather boa and frills brigade.

Chris could not help noticing that Craig was pressing closer. There was no daylight between them. Forgetting the fact that it was a man, pretending that it was, say, a feather bed, it wasn't a bad feeling - Craig was pleasingly resilient, like a good feather bed - but that was not a fact that Chris was able or willing to forget. He tried to back up, but he was already pressed against the wall. "Er.." he said, in his own voice.

Craig looked down. How had that happened? Being close to this loony was the last thing he wanted. He inched away nervously, giving a suspicious look. "Listen, you're not... are you?"

Chris frowned, confused. "What?"

Craig's glance darted up and down Chris. He didn't _look_ it. But the way he went on and on about spanking and pretending to be a girl... "You know..."

Didn't Chris say he was in the show? "An actor?" Chris asked, confused. "To my mum's eternal sorrow, yes."

"No! Like..." No use if he wouldn't admit it straight up, was it? Craig didn't blame him. Not something to be proud of. "Never mind. Suppose it doesn't matter."

Did he wonder where those voices were from? "A mimic? Haven't you seen Spitting Image?" Chris thought everyone had.

"Just don't..." Craig frowned and bit his lip, looking at Chris's lips, as the sentence faded out. "Eh?"

Chris shook his head. The kid didn't like topical shows. "Ah well."

Craig stared at the locker ceiling for a moment, then at his boots. Chris's body was in the way of his line of sight, and he ended up staring at the place where their groins almost met. He looked up quickly.

Chris was staring at the ceiling of the locker - the only safe place to look. "For the duration of this show, I will avoid lockers."

Craig swallowed. "Probably a good thing, that." He tried to calm himself. Help might be a long time coming. So he was locked in a tight space with a gay man. So what? Maybe he wasn't even gay. What did Craig know about him, after all? Only one way to find out, he supposed. "So who were you playing again?"

"As many people as I could."

"No, I mean... for the show, like. This one." Craig shifted. He'd seen 'Spitting Image'; it was rubbish. Cleary Chris was proud of his work there, though.

"Oh. Rimmer. You're Lister, aren't you? Paul was talking about you."

"Yeah," Craig said, with a little hesitation. It had all been such an odd combination of coincidences that it almost didn't seem real yet. He really, really wanted this job. But him, in a BBC sitcom? How had that happened?

"You've made some friends very quickly," Chris said. He could not understand why. The man was _irritating_. He smoked, he drank early in the morning, he was too quick to be offended. What on earth had the higher-ups seen in him? Well, he did have a pleasingly youthful face, one that was almost charming when it wasn't twisted in anger, and the lilt of his Scouse accent was almost musical. Perhaps those features came to the fore when you weren't locked into a space with him that was barely big enough for one.

"Yeah?" Craig asked, surprised. That wasn't what he'd heard.

"Yes. Doug can't get enough of you, I hear."

"I din't think he liked me at first, ya know." Craig could tell from the moment he'd opened his mouth. Well, he wasn't going to tone his accent down for any manc bastard!

"I don't think Doug could stand the thought of anyone else after he met you. Not that he calls the shots." Chris shrugged.

That wasn't the impression Craig had gotten, but Chris seemed sincere. "That right?" Certainly gave pause for thought.

"Yes." Chris's legs were cramping. He tried to squirm without it being undignified. "Did you lock yourself in with him, too?"

Oh, so that was what all that was leading up to! Craig's anger rose again, and he gave Chris a killer look. "What's that you keep implying, mate?"

Chris's legs would not uncramp. "For the love of all that's holy, don't be so damn touchy! I'm just trying to make conversation."

"Don't go thinking I'm like _that_ , 'cause I'm not like _that_ , yeah?" Craig snapped, irate.

Chris hissed out another sigh. "I never said you were." Damn, the man was touchier than a wet hornet.

Craig realized he was once again moving closer; he was not sure what to do about it. It just seemed to happen of its own accord. Well, they were cramped up, weren't they? He was starting to feel it in his legs. "Just so that's clear, right."

"Yes," Chris said, as if he were a mother consoling a petulant child. He tried to peer out of the locker slats. He wasn't sure which would be worse - not being let out, or being found locked in this little space with this man. If he were lucky, someone in the cleaning staff would find them. But it was getting late, close to the time when he should be at the read-through! "Paul must be here by now! He always shows up early to see who is going to show up late." He pressed his ear to the locker. "I think I hear footsteps. Might be the pipes, though."

Still fuming from the anger, as well as something he could not quite place, Craig's gaze shifted from Chris to the door. The action of movement meant he pressed even closer, one hand steadying himself on Chris's side of the locker. He turned back quickly as Chris spoke, his nose almost bumping Chris's. Ah, right. He hadn't meant to do that. He froze.

Chris tried to push himself into a corner of the locker. Would the man just decide if he was upset or if he wanted to cuddle? "Thank you..." Chris muttered, sarcastically.

Still unable to move, Craig swallowed. He breathed, frozen, confused. Just move away, he screamed at himself, but no part of his body seemed to react.

Chris scratched his hair, slightly nervously. His legs were still cramped. He was sweating. This was absolutely horrible.

Why couldn't he move? Shit, hell, what was this? And this Chris guy, with his unfunny jokes and his girly voices and talking about spanking... but he wasn't... Craig wasn't... Shit! "Not like that... Not like that..." he mumbled, trying to gain some sort of control.

Chris could barely hear him. But the words suddenly slotted into the correct part of his brain to understand what Craig was talking about. "Oh, for christ's sake, no, I'm not!" He wasn't the one who had bloody well pulled another man into a locker!

"Good," Craig said, his voice strangled. He did not move.

"I will not take advantage of the delicate position you accidentally dragged me into," Chris said, acidly. The little shit had actually thought he was _gay_? Frolicked around in bath-houses? Wore women's underwear? Fucking tawdry.

"Good," Craig said, still strangled.

Chris banged the door with his elbow. "Hell," he snarled. "I'm going to be late." He was never late.

Craig took a deep breath as Chris's face moved away from his. He felt an irrational desire to lean his head on Chris's shoulder, which would have been perfectly all right with a _mate_ , but _this_ guy? After all that had just happened?

Chris tried to do something novel, leaning against the door and putting his feet against the opposite wall. "Me legs are killing me." He winced at the d lassé sound of his voice. It only sounded like that when he was stressed. The position helped his legs only moderately, but it did turn him so he was no longer face-to-face with Craig.

Craig leaned against the wall on his side and tried to collect himself for the umpteenth time. He looked at the legs in front of him. It was the whole situation, he told himself. The nervousness, the lack of sleep. And this man just seemed to rub him the wrong way. He hoped he wasn't like this when he wasn't locked in a closet. Be damn near impossible to work with, if he was.

"I'm almost ready to bang on the door and get rescued by some sniggering janitor," Chris mumbled.

Craig closed his eyes wearily. "Too right."

Chris shifted. Craig was more nervous than he was; his cherubic face gleamed dully with sweat. Chris sighed. "So what do you do, when you're not locked up?"

Craig answered distantly. "Oh eh? Erm... I do performance stuff."

"What?"

"Poetry and that."

"Poetry?" Chris smiled. That was well on its way towards the bottom of the list of things he was expecting. "Sonnets?"

The man did just not let up, did he? "Not like that! You know, relevant stuff."

"You don't like sonnets because you think they're not... relevant?" Chris was still smiling. Poetry? Black-clad beat poems about cigarettes and misunderstanding? Crap, certainly. "What does a relevant poem sound like? Lay one on me."

"Wha, like now?" Craig asked, irritated. He did have a few choice words he'd like to say, but none of them were in his poems. Well. Most of them, anyway.

"Do you have anything pressing that you need to do in this locker?"

Craig considered that as he bit his lip. Maybe Chris was just trying to be friendly; make up for the stupid jokes he'd made earlier. All right. Fair's fair.

Chris shrugged. "Not if you don't want to. I'm just interested in what beats sonnets."

"Dunno 'bout beating; just different, is all. Dunno much about sonnets, but I know to write what I feel, yeah?"

The man's voice became almost melodic when he was enthusiastic, Chris noted. He nodded. "Makes sense. And what do you feel?"

Craig looked at him intently. "Right now?"

Chris turned his head to look at Craig, raising his eyebrows. "I mean, that you write about. Right now, I'm assuming you feel claustrophobic. And, I hope, slightly silly."

Craig snorted. He felt relieved, somehow. "Yeah, there's that."

"So? What do you write about?" Chris's curiosity was piqued, and he was going to pursue that.

What kind of a question was that? When you wrote, you wrote. It's not like he planned it out, or anything. Of course, he knew what he _wanted_ to write; and yeah, he'd been able to get out some socially relevant stuff lately. Still, it was a bit of a sore point. "What does anyone write about? What I care about, mostly."

"Yes, indeed. And that is?" Chris did not give up.

"Heh..." Craig said breathily. Chris did seem genuinely interested, which was unexpected. He hadn't figured the man as someone who'd appreciate what he wrote. It brought forth a sudden burst of honesty. "I want to say socially relevant stuff, but it all comes round to one thing in the end, dunnit?" He paused, trying for pathos and emphasis. "The big one. Love."

Chris laughed gently. "Well, that's mostly where the sonnets went, too. And sex. The great motivator of mankind."

"Aaw, yees; now yer talkin'! 'S what drives us all, innit? Makes fools of ourselves, trippin' over our feet; falling down, stumblin'." Craig was almost reciting now, he realized; but that was how words flowed. How he thought. How he wrote. It felt good. It was a nice change. Good.

Chris just listened, smiling. The man _was_ good. He had a flair and style to his speaking that felt quite natural.

"Love, man. Love and desire." Craig's eyes were glittering. He grinned a wide grin and laughed a short laugh.

That grin was contagious. Chris felt his own mouth curling from a smile to a grin. "You do care about it, don't you."

"Of course I do!" Craig said, enthusiastically. "It's what gives life meaning, yeah? Hits us right in here," he beat his chest with one fist. It struck Chris on the way back, almost gently, but Craig didn't notice. He was lost in his own words now.

"And there," Chris replied, looking down at where the fist had hit his own chest. His legs sent a message of protest to his brain, so he shifted himself back upright, facing Craig again. At least the man was at ease, and unlikely to get into his face again in rabid anger. Not right away, at least.

"Passion. Does that to ya. Hurts ya. Worth it, though," Craig continued, more quietly. He moved as Chris did, and they ended up face to face again.

Chris nodded. "I think I understand that," he said, quietly. Certainly, the woman in his life gave him passion to spare, but it was becoming clear that it was not... a productive one. Too hurtful to both. Something was going to have to change.

Craig beamed, a genuine smile. "You have someone like that?"

"Yes." Chris gave a wistful smile. "It is... annoying. And a bit expensive. I can't decide if it's worth it."

Craig smiled a sad, knowing smile. "That's the way it is."

"Great fun. But not something to repeat."

Funny thing to say. "What, no more passion? Ye'd be missing out, man." Craig couldn't help but sound amused. He couldn't mean that.

"No, not no more passion! God, I'm not dead. But no more... upset. Violence."

Craig nodded. He shifted a little closer, unconsciously, feeling comfortable now. This Chris wasn't so bad after all, maybe. Good that, they were going to be working together after all.

"Life without passion would be... well, not living," Chris continued.

Craig's eyes met Chris's. "Very true!" His face was glowing from the heat of the close quarters.

Chris licked his dry lips. "You sounded like you believe that. It's good to have convictions."

"I do," Craig said calmly. He held Chris's gaze, his mouth very slightly open. He didn't close it this time. It was warm; he needed the extra air. Plus, you know, who cared? It wasn't like he was in some sort of sexual situation or something, trying to turn someone sexually on. Or something.

"Do you usually have whiskey this early in the morning?" Chris asked, gently. Something had changed; there was a certain comfort, now, and he felt like he could just talk, without risking the mercurial man getting suddenly upset again.

Craig felt a slight blush come over his face, hoping it wasn't visible in the dimness. "Felt that, did ya? Nerves."

"About this? It's just a read-through."

Craig put one hand out to steady himself as he did earlier, on Chris's side of the locker. It was hard to keep upright in a place like this, even though he'd always felt he'd had good balance. But when there was no place to really put your feet to stand like you should, you had to improvise. "Never done much acting, though."

"Paul said you were a natural for the part," Chris said, barely noticing what he was saying. Craig's face, calm, was an engrossing sight. His eyes appeared very deep and brown in the dim light.

"That's good then." Craig held Chris's gaze, intensely. He couldn't figure out what color the man's eyes were. Well, that was a random thought, wasn't it? What the hell did that matter?

"If we make it to the read-through," Chris replied, his voice insufficiently full of cynicism. He did not look away. He felt strangely comfortable and un-self-conscious, now that they had both calmed a bit. That must be what Paul and Doug liked so much about Craig, he mused. He could put one at ease.

"Yeah, if." Craig's smile was like a flashlight turning on and off.

"If this wasn't your way of getting another Rimmer." Sarcasm again failed to saturate Chris's voice.

"I din't even know who they'd cast fer him. Never heard the part read by an actor before."

"You'll hear me read it, if we get out of here."

"Yeah." Craig shifted slightly against Chris's chest.

"And I'll hear you read Lister." I should feel uncomfortable, Chris thought. I usually do, when I'm this close to someone I'm not actually having sex with. I must be tired.

"I don't do accents, though," Craig mumbled. There were some bad memories there; people after him to "talk right". He just couldn't do it though. His mouth just wouldn't shape itself that way. He couldn't figure out how to make the sounds.

"You have one already." An oddly endearing one. Chris had heard his share of Scousers, but there was a melodic quality to Craig's voice that brought out a facet of that accent he had never heard before. He would have to listen to the man some more and learn it. Listen like... this.

Craig's lips quivered in beginning of smile, or as though he were about to say something. One of those two, definitely. He didn't though, and that was fine too. Somewhere along the line, nervousness had left him.

"It's... melodic," Chris said, hoping to make the man say something else. He felt relaxed, almost tired. Well, he _had_ slept badly the night before. And this little locker was dark and warm.

"So I've heard."

Chris chuckled. "I'm sure you have."

Craig gave a short laugh, during which he looked down. When he looked up, he miscalculated the distance, brushing against Chris's cheek with his nose, then his lips as he tried to steady his head. Maybe, he thought, he should feel weird about that. But he didn't. Was there enough oxygen in the locker? He felt light-headed.

Chris swallowed. But the man had said he wasn't gay. Almost murderously. So it was just an accident. That was fine.

Craig grabbed Chris's shoulder to steady himself. Chris was startled, and he instinctively clutched at Craig's waist. For a short moment, Craig just looked into Chris's eyes, breathing. He leaned in slightly closer. Chris felt frozen, looking at Craig. They were definitely out of his comfort zone. Supersaturated. Until it was almost comfortable again.

They could hardly be pressed closer, Craig thought, unless they were... they were... His brain wasn't working right; words wouldn't form, just feelings. And he felt good, he really did.

Chris breathed through slightly parted lips. They dried out in a few breaths, and he licked them, then let out a breath he did not know he had been holding.

Craig's lips parted ever so slightly. His chest tightened; he found he had a renewed awareness of groin against groin. It was not unpleasant, that either. It was... something.

Chris was... tired. His brain was not working properly. Not sleeping well, heat and dark, and the man in front him was, if he forgot he was a man, very comfortable to lean against. Chris felt his head start to tilt down.

The sudden sound and vibration of footsteps pushed Craigs bottom lip, just for an instant, against Chris's lower lip. But Craig hardly had time to react before the sound made Chris jerk back just before the door was opened, flooding the locker with too-bright light. Chris squinted as it brought on an almost-immediate whanging headache.

Ed Bye grinned at them. "Getting acquainted, boys?"

Craig panted like he had just run a marathon. The light hurt his eyes, and his lips felt swollen, like someone had punched him in the face. They didn't hurt, though, although his legs did. He could feel his left shin about to cramp up, and hurried out before it decided to charge into debilitating pain. He hated leg-cramps.

"I always like to see a little camaraderie among the cast!" Ed's face would split in half if he kept grinning like that, Chris noted, as he stepped out of the locker double-time.

Chris felt a need to explain himself. He jerked his thumb back at Craig. "He locked us in there while he was looking for his cigarettes." He realized how stupid that sounded, but what was he supposed to say?

Ed nodded sagely. "Oh, yes. Happens all the time."

Stumbling out of the locker, Craig blinked at the light. He put his hand on Chris's shoulder to steady himself, and felt the muscles underneath stiffen as though the man had been struck. _All right then_ , he noted, _doesn't like to be touched, this one_. "Yeah, sorry 'bout that," he said, lamely.

Chris tugged at his shirt to straighten it. _I'm probably sweaty_ , he fumed. "Read-through downstairs?" He did not wait for an answer, but headed for the door, not acknowledging the glance Craig threw in his direction.

Craig stood still for a moment, shaking his entire body like a dog after a swim. Certainly an odd start to the day, but he'd had worse. Hoping the other man knew here he was going, he started off after Chris.

Ed put out his hand to slow Craig as the man walked by. "Yes, I thought it was high time that one came out of the closet." Still grinning like a Cheshire Cat, Ed patted Craig on the back. "I never thought I would be the one to do it, though! But I couldn't have, without your help."

Craig was startled. He did not know what to say. He usually knew when people were kidding or not, but this had not been a usual morning. "Er... right."

"Don't mind us," Ed chuckled. "We're all quite mad." He walked down to the read-through, still smiling.

Craig watched him go, scratching at his head. The room felt too bright, like he had a hangover. Too bright, too open. He rubbed his lower lip and started walking, thinking of nothing in particular.


End file.
